Boo, Rats!
by Primsong
Summary: Based on Rene Gutteridge's humorous "Boo" series, set in the small town of Skary, Indiana between the events of her Boo and Boo Who novels. Former horror writer Wolfe "Boo" Boone, eccentric inhabitants and vistors engage in a comedy of errors. Enjoy.
1. Chapter 1

**Boo Rats!**

_Introduction and Author's Notes:_

This tale is based on Rene Gutteridge's "Boo" series, set in the small town of Skary, Indiana between the events of her _Boo_ and _Boo Who_ novels. It is approximately the third week of December, placing it post-conversion and post-engagement for protagonist and former famous horror-writer Wolfe Boone, but before the craziness of Christmas Eve that transpires in the second novel. I admit there wasn't a lot of room for a gap-filling tale here, so I had to give Alfred an extra trip on a plane, but with the "Boo" reference to "several book-signings" that were looming in December, it seemed not outside the plausibility that he might do this, especially in the world of this rather odd town and its inhabitants.

The event concerning the rat is based on something that really happened in our own home, complete with the reaction of our (only two) cats and the general manner of its being finally resolved. One small liberty I have taken is allowing the affectionate nickname of "Boo" to move slightly beyond the bounds of the townfolk themselves so that it could be used by those who are not from Skary, but who may have heard of it from other admirers.

I sincerely hope you enjoy it and I thank Rene, once again, for creating such fun characters to take on this rather amusing virtual romp. Much effort was made to remain true to both her characters and to the tone of her writings, I hope it has been successful. - AB

--

**1.**

It had been an unusual beginning to winter this year, in Skary; an early November blizzard having swept through to bog down the Thanksgiving holiday week, now an unusually warm wind had melted almost all of it away again. Heaps of slush and dirt-spattered remains of snowmen slumped the town towards a possibly cold and muddy Christmas season.

The lack of snow any heavier than the occasional dusting didn't stop the townspeople from breaking out their decorations, snow tires and snow blowers though. No matter what came after, they were ready.

Another thing that had been changing was the tourist trade. In spite of the brightness of the sun's light on the wintering town, the tenacity of Wolfe Boone's somewhat 'dark' fans had continued for a bit. The news that he'd been caught in the blizzard had brought out a small number of well-wishers and curiosity seekers, some of whom had done a bit of holiday shopping while they were at it. It had been a short-lived revival though, all too soon returned to their own homes to leave Skary alone once again. The town still had to face a seemingly inevitable decline, but after November's happenings they were generally more at peace with it.

But they didn't all leave, not quite yet.

Wolfe's announcement that he would no longer be writing horror novels hadn't slowed down all of his fans. There was a faction of them who simply would not believe it; while the initial surge had died down, a tiny number of the most die-hard among them still broke their collective piggy-banks for occasional pilgrimages to their chosen mecca of horror to validate their own bubble of denial.

They were usually easy to spot. The local residents of Skary had seen enough of their type over the years that a straggling horror-fan here or there gave them little pause, and the two that emerged from a mud-encrusted used car on this day were of no particular interest to the passerby. They wore relatively normal clothing, for one thing, except maybe for the coat the college-aged girl wore, a thick black poncho she had modified to make it more cape-like. She and her friend had met through an online fansite for Wolfe, and this was their first long journey together, all the way from Illinois. Of course the first thing they did upon arriving after trying to scout out the location of Wolfe's house was to look for Sbooky's bookstore.

Between them they'd invested most of their meager savings in lunch and gas money, but they couldn't leave empty-handed. No doubt this much famed bookstore carried plenty of their favorite books, probably all signed by the author too. Boo wouldn't disappoint his fans after all the way they had come just for him, would he? They were surprised to note the large S on the bookstore sign was down, making it just "bookys" with the outline where the S had been.

"Must have been a windstorm or something," the girl, Frankie, surmised.

Her companion, Bram, turned his skinny neck upwards to scrutinize it. "Cool."

Dustin looked up from the book he was reading as they entered. He briefly swished his long bangs out of his eyes and assessed them as more of Wolfe Boone's readers, though were getting fewer and farther between as the year went on. His initial notion was confirmed at Frankie's squealing - yes, squealing - when she saw their Wolfe Boone cardboard standee. It wasn't from _Black Cats_, but had been useful over the course of three different titles to give the corner by the window a nicely foreboding presence.

"Bram! Look, he has his own section. Isn't this wonderful?"

"Of course he does. This is Skary, right? Hey, look, there's a lot of great stuff here. _Fingers of the Mummy_ and _The Fingers Return_! I thought those were out of print."

Frankie poked him with her elbow, her hands were full of Wolfe Boone titles. "Those aren't _his_ books," she frowned.

"But I already have all of _his_ books."

"So buy some more; it's disloyal to even consider buy someone else's books here, right?" She directed this last question to the young man behind the counter.

"Huh?" asked Dustin, who hadn't been paying attention.

"I bet it must be exciting working here. Does he come here often?" she pressed.

"Oh. Um, sometimes. See that picture? I took that one just a little while ago."

Frankie peered at it. "Bram look at this."

"It doesn't look like him," Bram observed. He glanced back at the standee for confirmation of it.

Frankie turned back to Dustin. "If anyone should know, it would probably be you. Can you tell me something?"

Dustin shrugged. "Depends on the question. Maybe." Inwardly he knew what was coming, and sure enough she plowed ahead right into it.

"What about that announcement we read, about him saying he wouldn't be writing anymore horror novels? That can't be true, right?"

Dustin shrugged again. He'd heard it so often by now he had a standard answer. "I'm sure it's probably a publicity stunt." As time had gone on he still secretly hoped this was true, though so far there was nothing to encourage it. The few glimpses of Wolfe he'd had over the last few weeks were entirely innocent of anything resembling active writing.

"You really think so?"

One more shrug. "I just think that someone like Wolfe Boone could never just stop writing, he's too obviously a 'natural' at it." Dustin wasn't sure what he himself might be a 'natural' at, though he did feel strangely flattered when Wolfe's fans wanted his autograph or picture with them. He knew it was simply because he had met Wolfe in person and lived there in Skary. They took what they could get and so Dustin signed their autograph books.

"I thought so," she nodded then fished into her pocket for a small booklet. She handed it to him. "Can I have your autograph?"

"Um, okay," he took it from her and hunted for a pen that worked.

"Can I ask you one more thing?" she continued, leaning in towards him in a whisper.

"I guess."

She glanced back at Bram, who was staring up at a large poster hanging overhead.

"Is Wolfe Boone….single?"

"Uh yeah, sort of."

"Sort of?"

"My boss said he'd heard Wolfe is getting married pretty soon."

"What?" she said a bit louder. Bram looked over at her curiously. She whispered again. "To who?"

Dustin was trying out a couple different pens, making little circles on scratch paper. "Uh, the town's sheriff. I mean his daughter. She's okay. This works." He took a pen and scribbled on her journal, liking to think someday his own scrawled signature would be worth something, whenever he found out whatever he was natural at.


	2. Chapter 2

Boo Rats

**2.**

Alfred Tennison finished repacking his suitcase one last time. He had enough travel under his belt that it didn't take much thought, but with holidays coming up he wanted to be sure he had an assortment of small expensive-looking trinkets along should any networking possibilities present themselves. Always helped to have a gift in hand in December.

In spite of Alfred trying to be as persuasive as he could, most of the book-signing events for _Black Cats_ had been cancelled at Wolfe's insistence. Of course his getting half-frozen in November hadn't helped things at all, and even this one was probably going to be cut short. It just wasn't fair… He felt lucky that Wolfe was under contract to at least do this one. He hoped making him take a couple days among his old fans, signing copies of his own novel would bring him to his senses, or barring that, at least spark some kind of story in his erstwhile best-selling friend. It didn't help that Wolfe was completely distracted by that blonde sheriff's daughter either, though he was getting some ideas on how it might still all come out in the wash. Ainsley had talents that might be marketable. His plans were still a little vague, but getting clearer. Alfred Tennison always landed on his feet, didn't he? Of course he did. Maybe by Christmas he would have a plan.

As soon as he got to Skary he'd have to be sure to drop off a couple presents at Wolfe's house. He had already decided on what he would bring. As Wolfe had already made it clear that even amazingly collectible pens were lost on him and Alfred's own financial situation was no longer quite the same, all he got this year was a tie. It was silk, a red background with tiny black cats patterned over and over in the design. Alfred intended to suggest he open it early and wear it at the book-signing, though he doubted Wolfe would; he wasn't much of a tie kind of guy. In truth, the tie was just an excuse to also present Ainsley with something.

He opened the other box one more time to look it over. He would call it an early Christmas present, maybe, and it was bound to impress with its 400 price tag still attached to the box. Not that it had cost Alfred himself any such thing. He'd gotten it a couple years back as a doorprize while attending an exclusive party he had actually sort of forged an invitation to. The networking he had been attempting had come to nothing, but at least the food had been good. It had been in his closet ever since.

He tilted the box briefly. The crystal spritzer of rare _Eau de Peretti_ glittered, the top made of three tiny perfectly formed cut-crystal and emerald pears. A delicate little tube curled around to a golden-mesh ball that would theoretically make it spritz if squeezed. He'd never even taken it out of its box, so he wasn't sure if it really smelled anything like the pears pictured on the shiny little label, but at least it looked nice, which he hoped might appeal to Ainsley. All women liked perfume, didn't they? While Wolfe himself was a lost cause for presents, he might come around if Alfred could bring a little happiness into the life of his beloved Ainsley, right?

--

Bunny sat with her nose pressed up to the dishwasher while Goose supervised. Wolfe watched them as he finished his morning coffee. They'd been doing this off and on over the last several days and he had finally figured out why: there was a rat in his kitchen. He'd found several things chewed up in his pantry and wondered where it could be coming from. Was it in the dishwasher? Behind it, maybe, or in the insulation around it? Well, it would be a nice, warm place to sleep if you were a rat, he had to concede that.

A faint scratching, scrabbling sound came into the quiet of the kitchen. Wuff, commented Goose. Wolfe nodded. "I think you found it."

He reflected how just last year the thought of a rat in his house wouldn't have mattered that much. He would have found some way to eventually get rid of it, but with Ainsley so recently a part of his life it mattered a lot. He didn't want her or her family to think that the home he was going to be bringing her into was infested with vermin.

He would have to get rid of it sooner rather than later. He remembered the Sheriff boasting about what a great mouser Thief was, or maybe it had been Butch… 'military precision' had been a part of how it was described, the way the cat could take his prey. He toyed with the notion of calling the Sheriff and seeing if he would lend out his cat, his hand hovering over the phone in indecision. No. His hand went back into this pocket. He thought about Ainsley's own spotlessly clean kitchen, which no doubt never had rats, and resolved that the kitchen she would come home to at his house would likewise be rat-free in her eyes, untouched by vermin tooth or tail.

He had a few chores to finish up, but a trip into town was most definitely called for.


	3. Chapter 3

Boo Rats

**3.**

Pulling into the nearly empty lot of the town's moderate combination grocery and drygoods store, he parked his Jeep near a small, beat-up looking car with out-of-state plates. Glancing at it as he went in, he had to give a slight smile at the faded high school graduation tassel hanging from the rear-view mirror. A college kid. He'd had a car like that once, a long time ago.

The elderly electric door somewhat reluctantly slid aside as Wolfe obligingly hesitated for it on the rubber mat outside. The vaguely musty mixed scent of the store flowed over him as he went in, nodding at the single cashier who stood at the checkout, her nose in a magazine. "Two-Headed Aliens Trap Bald Man - Force Him to Wear Toupee" the questionable headline blared. She hardly looked up. He had hardly ever been here, but figured they would have what he needed, it shouldn't take long.

He scanned the signs over each aisle, unsure what category he should be looking for, and tried "Hardware." No luck, just hangers, hot cocoa mix and three kinds of hammers. Maybe it would be with bug spray, which would be with…what? Picnic things? He tried "Paper Goods." This time he found plenty of paper plates, plastic forks and peanuts, but nothing for vermin. He rocked on his heels thoughtfully and looked up at the signs again. This time he noticed they were not in a logical order according to what they would be used for, they were alphabetical. He blinked. He'd never seen a business with its contents kept alphabetically outside of a bookstore. He headed for the back aisle and the end of the alphabet.

Sure enough, with tea, tablecloths and taco sauce on one side and bottled water on the other, he found items for vermin. There were quite a lot of them, it being farming country. No one understood vermin like farmers did. He stood and pondered the selection of pest sprays, fly-strips and other ways to rid a home of unwelcome pests. There were several mouse and rat traps, leaving him wondering how he was supposed to choose one. What size? Which bait? Maybe he'd get one or two of each, since after all he'd wasn't really sure where to place them. A kitchen was a big place when you thought of it from a rat's perspective. He gathered up a large and varied number and carried them to the front to pay for them.

Bram and Frankie gaped from the other end of the store, their small basket of granola bars and sodas dangling from Frankie's arm. Was that really Wolfe Boone? It was! And he was right here in the store! They looked at one another, hardly able to believe their luck.

Wolfe emptied his arms of traps, and cocked a somewhat embarrassed smile at the dumpy woman who set her magazine aside and began ringing them up. He hoped she didn't know Ainsley, though it often seemed everyone in the town did, and if she did that she wouldn't mention his odd purchase of so many traps. Maybe he should have bought them at the next town over.

She looked at them a moment, then rang them up without comment and dropped them into a paper bag. Not the talkative sort then, he thought. That was promising. He counted a few bills out of his wallet, took his change and nodded a farewell, tucking his purchase under his arm as he headed back out to his Jeep.

The cashier looked up again to find two strangers standing in front of her, one clutching a plastic shopping basket in her arms.

"Was that… Boo?" the man asked. "Wolfe Boone?"

She quirked an eyebrow at them. Oh, one of those. Wordlessly, she took the basket and began ringing up the boxes of granola bars.

The woman tried to get a reaction out of her next. "What was that he was buying? It looked like nothing but…traps? Does he buy that sort of thing often? What does he use them for?"

The cashier graced her with one condescending long look and dropped the groceries into a bag. Tourists. They didn't know anything. Anyone who was well-read knew it took a lot of traps to catch aliens.

"That'll be eight dollars and thirty-five cents," she said.

--

Out in the parking lot of the store, Frankie and Bram sat in their beat-up car and opened the boxes of bars, stuffing them into Frankie's pockets for later on as they surreptitiously watched the object of their fandom toss his sack of traps into the back seat of his Jeep and drive away.

"You remember when we talked about making sure we had at least a little bit of adventure on this trip?" Frankie asked.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Bram asked in return. He pulled an extra granola bar out, ripped off the wrapper and took a bite.

Frankie was pensive. "I'm wondering why he would ever say he wasn't going to write anymore. I think maybe he was just missing some inspiration, you know? Like maybe he's looking for something to help him come up with another story."

"Like a refill?" he took another bite.

"Maybe. After all, poets go off to some kind of ivory tower by the seashore when they need their inspiration, don't they? Romance writers probably go to the southern coast of France or something. Buy new lingerie and eat bon-bons. What would horror writers do?"

Bram chewed noisily before answering. "I guess they'd try to make something scary happen, or look for someplace that's haunted."

"I think that's what he's doing," said Frankie thoughtfully. "Maybe his house is haunted, but it needs some stirring up."

"I bet it is," nodded Bram logically. "Why else would he live way out here in the boondocks?"

"But it's must not be enough anymore. He's up to something. Why all the traps? Is he trying to catch some kind of creature?"

"How about we find out?" asked Bram. He wiped crumbs away from his pants.

"You mean… go to his house?" Frankie's eyes widened.

"Not in it, just around it," he clarified. "You said you wanted some adventure."

"Um, well…isn't it kind of cold out?"

"We have coats. And it would only be for a little while. We just have to wait for it to be dark."

"Why dark?"

"You want him to see us? Duh! Besides, you should know ghosts and creatures and things only come out at night. And c'mon, this is Wolfe Boone! There's bound to be something creepy to see. It would be worth a few minutes of cold feet."

"All right," she said, though a little reluctantly. "Are you sure we won't get, you know, shot for trespassing or something? Don't celebrities usually have security guards and trained dogs?"

"Nah, not out here" Bram said airily, waving his hand at the quiet town around them. "Besides, who needs guards when you have ghosts at your beck and call?"

--


	4. Chapter 4

Boo Rats

**4.**

Wolfe dumped out the contents of the bag onto his kitchen table and briefly sifted through it. The small ones could go in the small places, he reasoned, such as the inside of the cupboards. The larger ones in larger places, and the medium ones could fill in anything left that looked like a likely place for a rat to run.

He had most of them in place with a few rounds of rearranging and was reading the instructions on the back of a glue-trap when his phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Wolfe?" It was Ainsley, and she sounded slightly worried. "I'm sorry to interrupt whatever you're doing…"

"I'm always glad to hear from you. What's happening?"

"It's my dad. He's getting out more Christmas lights, and he's going to climb up on the roof to string them. The top one burned out up there. I know he says he's perfectly fine with it, but Butch won't be back for some time and he really shouldn't be doing this by himself."

"I understand. You want me to come lend a hand?"

"Oh, would you? I hate to ask it…."

"No, no. That's fine. I've never done it before, but I'm willing to learn."

"I'll make you a hot dinner too."

"Habanero?" he teased.

"I meant hot as in steaming, and you know it… " She sounded slightly hesitant. "Do you like habanero peppers? I've never used them before but for you, well, I'm willing to learn too…

"I was kidding. Believe me, you don't want to get any, they're pretty hot; I think you have to wear gloves just to cook with them. Whatever you have in mind will be fine, I'm sure, and probably more than fine. You always make everything look and taste wonderful."

She sounded pleased at this compliment. "Well, dress warm. I'm not going to tell him that you are coming because if I do he'll just say he doesn't need help. He's already forbidden me to come near the ladder. You can surprise him."

"Just dropping by? You want me to lie to him?"

"Tell him you couldn't stay away from me."

"Now that's not a lie at all. I'll be there in just a bit… love you…" It was still a novelty to get to say that to someone on the phone. Love you. He hung it up and looked down that glue-trap that was still waiting in his other hand. He'd completely forgotten about it.

What were those instructions again? He read them through again, opened it up and carefully placed the sticky thing in the only place left he hadn't covered, under the table. That way if he forgot it, the worst that could happen was a sticky sock in the morning, he thought. If he was going to be gone through dinnertime, he better feed the dogs a little early too.

He was just going to get out the dogfood when the phone rang again.

"Wolfe!"

"Ainsley?"

"He's already up the ladder! Where are you?"

"I'm sorry, I thought he was just getting them out... Be there in a sec!"

He grabbed his coat and headed out the front door. He'd have to help the sheriff, and then come back again to feed the dogs. Goose and Bunny looked at him, confused at his getting out their dishes early and then not filling them. "I'll be right back," he told them.

--

Frankie looked nervously over her shoulder for the fifth time as she followed Bram up the hill. The wintry trees and bushes, which had seemed perfectly friendly in the daytime now seemed more and more sinister as night came on. She pulled her coat more closely about her and shivered slightly, though whether from cold or nervousness she couldn't say. Like any serious fan, she knew as much information about Wolfe Boone as she had been able to ferret out anywhere online; she was aware that he kept dogs, and her imagination added to this a variety of booby-traps and maybe even a walking skeleton or two. As they panted their way up, she wanted nothing more than to be as quiet as possible, but it seemed their nervousness just made Bram talk and talk. He was still whispering along incessantly ahead of her.

"I was just thinking how in_ The Pied Piper's Revenge_ the ghosts took the form of mice and rats and things, and the hero caught them all in a bag while they were manifested. My theory is Boo's needing some help with his next book, so he's planning on catching some manifestations of ghosts, you know, for inspiration. He'll need to do a séance to bring them in first. Let's go around to where we can see his table," he said.

She lowered a large bramble branch and carefully stepped over it, her boots sinking into the thick mould. "Table? Why his table?"

He gave her a superior look. "Séances are always done with a table. Haven't you read _anything_?"

"I've read all of Boo's books," she grumbled defensively. "And he didn't write that Pied Piper one, it was that other guy, what's-his-face. I didn't even like it. And if séances are so good for catching mice, why don't people do that instead of putting out cheese and traps and stuff?"

"They're only good for possessed mice, not regular ones," he explained as if this were plainly obvious. He turned to slink from one clump of trees to the next.

"Oh." She followed him.

They moved upward and then around, slipping from cover to cover until they could just peer at the back of the house. Bram carefully pulled himself up and rubbernecked over a small hedge of wild cranberry bushes. From this position they could barely see into the kitchen window where about half of the kitchen table stood faintly visible in the green glow of a microwave display.

--

Wolfe stood at the base of the ladder and steadied it with one hand while trying to feed a line of Christmas lights upward. Ainsley had been right, the Sheriff had grumbled briefly about how he was fine and could do it himself, had done it a hundred times, but at the same time had been obviously grateful to have his future son-in-law show up at the house. What perfect timing too, just when he was having second thoughts about the stability of his old ladder.

The Sheriff towed the new string of lights up toward where the darkened line of the blown-out string lay balanced across the ridge of his roof. Carefully steadying himself, he tugged at the old string while trying to not lose his grip on the new. It was caught and he couldn't quite reach it. He lunged a little further upward, yanking the new string with him as he grabbed the old line. He flipped it upward then gave it a tug. It abruptly came loose and shot down the roof like a clattering snake, snatching the new one with it on the way down.

"Rats!" cried the Sheriff in frustration as both lines vanished over the edge.

Wolfe startled as the new line suddenly jerked upward swinging the plug-in connector so it smacked him right in the nose. Before he could pay proper attention to that small injury, there was a cry of _'Rats!_' from above which made him startle and look up only to see two entire strings of outdoor lights suddenly shooting out from above. They plummeted over the roof, thwacking themselves all about his head and shoulders, clattering over the ladder.

The Sheriff's head and shoulders appeared, silhouetted against the dark sky above them. Wolfe looked up at his face appearing and disappearing faintly as the neighbor's light-swathed chimney blinked nearby. He considered what he saw and chuckled. "Well, you're sure all decorated for Christmas now. Just need to plug you in. Ha. Hand up that other one again, will you? We need to finish this before Ainsley's supper gets cold."

--

Ainsley sighed as Wolfe got up from the couch and started pulling on his coat. It had been a wonderful evening having him so close and she hated to see him leave though she realized it must be getting quite late. Her eyes did feel heavy and she hoped she didn't look as droopy as she felt.

"You have to go?"

"I should have a long time ago. The dogs will be wondering where I am, I never got them fed and I need to let them out for a bit before bed," he said apologetically. "Besides, I need to let you get some sleep."

"I don't know where the time went," she said. "It feels like you just got here…"

He buttoned up his coat, flipped a scarf around his neck and reached over to give her a well-insulated hug. She reached up to tweak his collar shut over the scarf. "Mm. If you wait just a little longer, I can send a nice mug of hot cocoa with you, or some cider…"

"I appreciate the thought, but really, I'll be warm."

"But the snow…"

"Ainsley," he said looking straight into her lovely eyes. He had intended to be firm with her about all this freezing to death thing, but it was a mistake. His thoughts were addled considerably by what he saw. "Ainsley…"

"What?" The pretty eyes blinked.

"I told them I'd be bite rat, I mean…um, right back."

"What?" she repeated, puzzled.

"The dogs, I mean," he stumbled. "Um. They need food. And there's no snow until next week, I promise."

"Still, you must be getting tired," she fussed. "I hate for you to go out into that cold again. Are you sure your coat is warm enough?"

He rolled his eyes, but softened it with a smile. Maybe it wasn't that bad, being fussed over just a little. "I'm fine. And besides, just thinking about you will keep me warm all the way home. I'll see you tomorrow."

She sighed and accepted his embrace then finally reluctantly let him go out into the night.

--


	5. Chapter 5

Boo Rats

**5.**

Alfred grumbled to himself as he stomped the mud and slush from his shoes on Wolfe's front porch. He had hoped to arrive much earlier than this, but one delay after another had dropped the wintering sun behind the horizon even before he had reached town. He knocked lightly on the door. Inside he could hear the dogs snuffing and jumbling around in the entry, a couple soft, curious woofs. Nothing else.

He knocked again. He had noticed that Wolfe's Jeep was missing, but hoped he might somehow still be at the house. It was getting cold, and he shivered a little as he considered. He tried the knob. It turned.

"Hey Goose, hey Bunny," he called softly, wondering not for the first time how a writer as creative as Wolfe Boone could have dogs with names like these. "It's me, Alfred. Alfred. You know me. Remember? It's just me. I'm a friend! I'm coming in now…"

He slowly pushed the front door open. A wash of warm air met his face and two eager German Shepherd noses met his knees and hands. They wuffed a bit, but seemed to accept his being there, for which he was very grateful. He stepped in as the dogs pushed past. Hoping it was going to be okay that he'd let them out, he closed the door against the cold and rubbed his arms in appreciation of the warmth.

"Wolfe?" he called softly, just in case. "Anyone home?" Silence. He could hear a clock ticking somewhere and faint noise of the dogs trotting down the porch steps. It was strange being there without anyone else. His imagination began to embellish it with creepy overtones. Easing himself down onto the couch for a moment, he sat there unsure what to do next. How long should he wait? What if he got hungry? Surely Wolfe wouldn't begrudge him something small to eat. He crossed and uncrossed his legs and twiddled his thumbs, then looked over the presents he'd brought. Maybe the tie and perfume bottle would look better if it were displayed like they had them in stores. He took out the tie and experimentally draped it in what he hoped was an artistic fashion on the coffee table, then tried to pry the perfume bottle out to prop it up. It wouldn't budge.

After a few more tries he decided he might be able to get it out if he had a tool of some kind; something like a butterknife. He got back up and made his way to the kitchen in the dual hope of something to pry with and a snack.

The kitchen was almost completely dark. Alfred patted fruitlessly around the doorway for a light-switch. Well, he remembered approximately which drawer he had seen silverware drawn out of before. He half-felt his way along and opened a drawer. His second try yielded a butterknife. He set the box on the end of the table and pried at the bottle with the tip of it.

The knife promptly slipped and caught the crystal pears at the top, shooting the lid clean off the bottle which ricocheted back in his hand with a sudden slosh. A thick, musky fruity scent coiled up as he desperately wiped his hand off on his pants, the butterknife fell to the floor with a clatter. Where was the lid?

Alfred gasped at the strength of the perfume, his eyes watering. He muttered a curse and briefly smacked along the wall for the elusive light switch then dropped to his knees to scoot around the floor, fishing in the dim light for the missing crystal lid.

There was a loud _snap!_ and a sudden surprising pain on his fingers. Another snapping sound clamped his trouser leg and he leaped upward only to find he had worked his way underneath the table. More snapping sounds ensued as he bounced off of the underside with a yodeling sound that would have made a mountaineer proud.

--

When the table began bumping up and down, Bram's eyes could hardly believe what he was seeing. It was happening! But where was Wolfe Boone? A terrible yowling, ululating cry came faintly from the kitchen and the table lunged upward, a chair falling to the side.

His eyes about bugged out of his head. "R-run!" he fumbled belatedly as Frankie was already past him and on her way down the hill. They fled, their gasping breaths leaving a little white trail behind them. Bram was faintly aware of a vehicle pulling up in the drive as they half-slid down the muddy hill in the a shower of wet dead leaves and twigs. They heard what sounded like dogs barking, which only served to redouble their efforts.

--

The kitchen door slammed back as an alarmed Wolfe abruptly entered the kitchen and almost staggered back from the sheer thickness of the scent that filled the place. The smell of the spilled perfume filled the kitchen with an overpowering floral fruitiness.

The light clicked on and he stood there, still bundled in his coat with barking dogs flanking him on either side. He looked beyond astonished to find his former editor sitting on the floor of his kitchen under the table, covered in mouse and rat traps, alternately whimpering and saying sailor-like things that he would have never have been allowed to put into print. The smell was unbearable

Goose and Bunny wagged and barked excitedly. Wolfe hushed them and sent them out, closing the door on them and running over to open the kitchen window for air. He turned and pulled away a toppled chair, set it upright then reached out a hand to help Alfred from under the table to his feet. Traps clattered to the floor as Alfred ripped them off.

"What are you doing under my table?"

"Wolfe! Are you trying to kill me? What's with all the traps?"

"I have a rat in my house," Wolfe stated grimly. "Alfred…"

"Now look, I know you aren't too happy with me about this book-signing thing, and maybe I've been a little pushy, but name-calling…"

Wolfe ran a hand through his hair, inwardly praying for patience. "I mean a real rat, Alfred. Why else would I be putting out traps? And what in heaven's name is that horrid smell?"

The room swirled with the incredibly thick fruity scent. "Perfume," said Alfred unhappily. He pulled a trap from his sleeve. "Expensive perfume too, or at least it was."

"Perfume."

"It's a long story. I was going to leave it here for an early present for Ainsley."

"And why, pray tell, would you be leaving my fiancée a present?"

"Because I got you one, of course. You don't want her to be left out, do you?"

"Right. So you came all the way to Skary four days early just to be our Santa Claus."

"Look, can we talk about this in the other room? It's kind of hard to breathe in here."

"I'm half inclined to make you stay in it. Come on." Wolfe opened the kitchen door back up and half-pulled Alfred through it to shut the door behind him. Anything to corral that smell. They went into the living room where Alfred promptly sat down on the couch and began pulling off the remaining traps. A glue trap stuck to the front of one trouser leg gave him exceptional trouble.

"I didn't know you had an unwelcome visitor in your house," he observed glumly, tugging at it.

"Besides you?"

Alfred didn't immediately reply, prying at the glue trap. "I meant the rat of course. You seem a bit irritable."

Wolfe bit back a sarcastic remark. Alfred was right. He took a deep breath and tried a more reasonable tone. "Well, you could say it was a bit of a shock to find you trespassing in my house, under my table and reeking of perfume, as well as ruining most of the traps I had just set."

"Apology accepted," nodded Alfred.

Wolfe's eyebrows quirked. He hadn't really been apologizing; in anything he had been expecting one from his visitor. He took another breath. "Now, give me a straight answer. Why are you here? We don't leave for four more days."

His former agent pried up the edges on the trap. It finally came loose leaving a large rectangle of glue on the fabric. Alfred grimaced and shook the sticky cardboard off onto a magazine that lay nearby. "Now look at this. My best trousers too. I only packed one more pair, seeing as this event is _only_ for two days." He looked pointedly up at Wolfe.

"So that's it. Alfred, I made it pretty plain why I wouldn't take on the rest of the tour. I'm not about to miss my first Christmas with Ainsley, and it's not like I need to be promoting things for the horror genre anymore anyway. I'm only contractually obligated for one."

"I know, but there's a major bookstore in Chicago that is very interested in having you come. Impromptu. They'll arrange everything you need, all you have to do is be in Chicago by noon tomorrow."

"Noon. Tomorrow."

"Unadvertised of course, but I can pump the word of mouth network. We'll make it fit your image as an eccentric recluse."

"And what, pray tell, are you imagining that I would be doing there?"

"Why, signing your book of course. It would help make up for one of those signings we lost out on earlier this month after you went out and froze."

"After I froze."

"Yeah. You look warm now. The illness thing doesn't work anymore. What do you say? Oh, and you don't even have to worry about something to wear. See, I got you this." He reached over and picked up the silk black cats tie that was still laying on the coffee table.

Wolfe eyed it dubiously. "I don't think so."

"Merry Christmas!" Alfred tried to hand it to him.

"I still don't think so."

There had originally been several events scheduled but he'd managed to cancel most by pleading poor health, though in fact he was perfectly recovered for most of that time. Alfred initially had enough of a scare from his being lost in the snow three weeks before that he didn't argue the point. Much. True, there had been a fair bit of grumbling, but not nearly what there would have been he hadn't such a good excuse.

Wolfe considered it something good coming out of something bad, an idea got from a message that Reverend Peck had preached on recently. Good things like being home today and not jet-lagged in a hotel somewhere in L.A. or New York.

Besides, as he had told Alfred, this Christmas he needed to be there for Ainsley. Not only there physically, but mentally too, not worn out with travel. In a way it was their first Christmas as a couple, even if they weren't married yet. He was still walking on clouds about her having accepted his proposal just the past week, and she loved holidays so much.

He had to have at least one event and he'd chosen the shortest one he could. They'd even trimmed it back to two extremely busy days just so he could have a buffer before Christmas, allowing extra days before just in case winter weather decided to snow in an airport or two.

"I'm not going to Chicago tomorrow."

"But Wolfe…"

"And certainly not wearing that tie."

"But Wolfe…"

"Or the perfume. Look, I'm sorry that you're disappointed, but that's the way it is now. I'll let you know if anything changes. It's late. Why don't you go to your hotel, and I'll see you in four days when it's time to go. I'll be ready."

"No excuses? No being at death's door at the last minute?"

"Not planning on it." Wolfe took his hand and shook it, noticing it was still sticky from the rat trap.

Alfred sighed. "Well, I wish you luck with your other unwelcome visitor. Sorry about the perfume. If you find some little pears in your kitchen, they go on the bottle."

"What?"

"Good night." Alfred picked up the tie and waved it again. "You sure?"

"Very."

Alfred folded it and stuffed it in his pocket, glad he'd kept the receipt. He let Wolfe see him out the front door and morosely walked back to his car. Behind him he heard the lock click.

--


	6. Chapter 6

Boo Rats

**6.**

"Really!"

"I saw it too! It was amazing!"

It was late the following morning and Dustin looked quizzically at Frankie and Bram who had shown up at the bookstore again only an hour after opening, eager to tell him of what they had witnessed on the hill the previous night.

"Howls," Frankie said, "And moans. The cries of tormented souls, I'm sure of it."

"The furniture was floating all over the place, all by itself!" Bram added, waving his hands to illustrate.

"The furniture?" asked Dustin skeptically.

"Okay, I guess it was just the kitchen table. But it was floating!" Bram said. "I tell, you we saw it all with our own eyes."

"And heard it too, like shrieks from a graveyard," said Frankie in a spooky voice.

"Graveyards don't shriek," Dustin said blandly, looking back down at the book he was trying to read. He was sure they were making it up now.

"This one does," said Frankie.

"It's not a graveyard. It's Wolfe Boone's kitchen," he pointed out.

"Well, maybe it was built on a graveyard," she said a bit more lamely.

Dustin brushed it off. Some people just had imaginations that wouldn't quit. Anyone with half a brain would know that a séance like that required more than one person, he thought. It was probably something easily explainable, like the table having been made from cursed wood.

Amateurs. Dustin shook his head and went back to reading his book, leaving them to whisper together behind the sun-faded standee in the corner.

--

The Mansion was not what they had hoped for, they had to admit. Frankie and Bram sat in a booth near the window and watched the small number of afternoon regulars come in for their coffee and sandwiches. They'd both read online reviews about this place written by other horror fans, but the horror theme they found was disappointing at best. Even the menus, which looked newly printed, were relatively plain. Not a horrific thing in the list, unless meatloaf was horrific. Bram wondered how a writer like Wolfe had managed to be inspired from such a place.

"I thought this was supposed to be the restaurant that he based that cursed diner on, the one all those people disappear at," he commented, pushing away the remains of a perfectly mundane ham sandwich.

Frankie ripped open a packet of sugar for her coffee. "Did you see the sign on the wall by the cash register? It calls this place the Haunted Mansion, but 'Haunted' has been crossed out."

"So it's not called haunted anymore? That's boring. I wonder if it was ever haunted for real?"

Frankie stirred in a second packet pensively. "How does a writer like that get ideas for a story anyway? He makes it up so well. When I read it, it's like it's real."

Bram nodded and leaned forward. "Exactly what I was just thinking." He tapped the table significantly. "Boo doesn't write like it's fiction."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean a writer can only write like that if they've experienced it themselves, that's what I think. I mean, you can't just make stuff like that up. I bet he chose this place because he knew it would give him the most supernatural phenomena for something. Not the diner, I mean the whole town. Look at all the black cats we've seen here, for instance. Is that weird or what? And why are so many of the storefronts vacant?"

"You think that's where the idea for his book came from then?" Frankie looked around the deli as if she half-expected cats to come out of the walls.

"Yeah. So whatever he's up to with his séances or ghost-catching or whatever up there, I bet it'll be the theme for his next book."

"Maybe we should go back. If we can see what's going on, it would be like getting the exclusive scoop on his next book!" Frankie was getting excited.

"Go back up? To his house?" Bram was obviously considering it. "That would be so cool. We'd know about his next book before he's even written it."

--

Once more they slogged their way up the cold, slush-dotted hill through wintering trees draped here and there with pathetic brown rags of leaves. Barren branches creaked in the slight breeze. It was almost familiar, in a creepy sort of way.

"It sure got dark quick," Frankie said, trying to watch her step and wishing she had another layer of clothing. "Winter days are too short. We should have brought a flashlight."

"Then we'd be seen," whispered Bram. He crunched through some twigs and she followed him wordlessly for a few paces.

"Aren't we trespassing?" Frankie whispered.

"Well, only sort of. You know, I read that some Indians believed that the land didn't truly belong to anyone."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"My grandma once said my dad was part Indian…or maybe it was my great-grandma. At least I think so. "

"So…?"

"So it's not really trespassing, see?"

"Somehow I don't think those dogs we heard are going to stop and ask you about your lineage."

"Look, you want to give up?" He waved an arm to encompass the shadowy trees and barely visible patches of slushy snow around them. "Just think of where we are!"

"We're on someone else's land."

"What? No, no. I mean, just think where we are! This is practically ghost central around here. He probably chose this hill because it was already haunted or something. Like you said, I bet there's a graveyard under the foundation. That's why they named the town Skary."

She looked at him askance. "Really? They did?"

He shrugged. "What other reason would they have?"

--


	7. Chapter 7

Boo Rats

**7.**

That evening, Wolfe firmly led Bunny and Goose outside, though they were whimpering with excitement at the smell of the cardboard box he had in the hall. Their winter coats were in and he knew a little time outdoors wouldn't hurt them. Once they were safely out, he carried the box into the kitchen and closed the kitchen door.

The room was chill, and the smell of the perfume was still pretty noticeable in spite of the window he'd left partly open to try to dispel it while he was gone. He lowered the box to the floor. After the traps looked to be an abject failure, he had decided to try getting rid of the rat in the most logical, natural way he could think of.

The box gently opened up to release a handful of black cats. The mother cat was more portly and sort of waddled out of the box, sniffing and exploring this new place with wide eyes. Her nearly full-grown litter of kittens followed her, a gaggle of black cats of assorted shapes and sizes. It hadn't been hard to find someone in town with a group they were more than willing to lend.

Wolfe smiled. "Now we'll get you…" he told the dishwasher.

The cats watched curiously as Wolfe wedged his fingers in at the sides of his dishwasher. With a grunt, he suddenly yanked it out from the covering countertop. Sure enough, there in a perfect circle in the pink insulation was a rat nest. A very startled brownish rat leaped out of the insulation and onto the dishwasher as he recoiled away from it.

"Get it! Catch it! Eat the rat! Eat it! Catch it!" he heard himself yelling insanely at the cats.

But the cats all seemed just as startled as he was. The rat jumped down and ran right across the kitchen floor; all the cats scattered from it, not seeming to know what to do. Cats were everywhere, the rat was scuttling about and Wolfe found himself climbing up on a chair to get away from all the creatures suddenly tearing about on his kitchen floor. He neglected to remember his own height and hit his head on the overhead fixture so the lights flashed crazily around the room.

--

Squatting behind a screen of cranberry shrubs, Bram shifted his weight again, thinking their return may have been for nothing. Wolfe appeared to be home, but that was it. He was cold and hungry and wished he had brought his heavier jacket like Frankie had. He opened his mouth to say as much and propose they get out the granola bars she carried in her pockets when Frankie gasped and grabbed at his arm. His head whipped around to follow her startled gaze. The two watchers goggled as they witnessed a bout of strange lights flashing around through the kitchen window, accompanied by unintelligible imperative shouts. Suddenly the window curtain was shoved aside as the mother cat forced her way through the corner of the old screen. She was followed by several more black cats, a stream of black cats. Somewhere nearby dogs suddenly began barking.

Once more they found themselves panting down the hill full bore, Bram pulling to the lead in spite of his left leg still being mostly asleep. Behind them they could hear the dogs barking and imagined the hot breath of a pack of snarling killer watchdogs on their very heels though in fact both Goose and Bunny had quickly been distracted by the confetti of cats on their property and hadn't even gone after the strangers once they were past the top of the drive.

"UFO's!" said Bram, sliding in the mud as they staggered out onto the embankment of the road, "Did you see that? That was an alien invasion!"

"But there were cats" panted Frankie. "And those aren't alien. I think it was a command. A command to the ghosts of the cats to get out of his house, did you see how they ran? They came right through the window! I gotta write something about this."

"Cat ghosts? They looked real to me."

"Of course they did to _you_, but _I _know about these things. Are you sure you read his books? They went through glass! And they didn't have shadows."

"I thought the window was open. And it's night, why would they have shadows?"

"An open window in December? Look, who are you going to believe, me or your own imagination? Sheesh."

--

Inside, Wolfe's eyes were dazzled by the chandelier's lightbulbs swinging around his head and he wasn't sure where the cats went. Or the rat for that matter. He climbed down. The kitchen still smelled of cologne, but he didn't want to leave the window open all night and freeze the kitchen. He closed it, then fetched a flashlight to tentatively shine into the darker corners and underneath every overhang of furniture.

No rat.

Finally giving up, he closed off the kitchen doors and called to the dogs to come in. They'd gone a long ways out from the house and he ended up having to walk around calling "Goose! Bunny! Goose! Bunny!" for some time. By the time they slunk back to him in a guilty way, he was exhausted and shivering and disgusted with them for getting so muddy and wet. Now his house would smell like wet dog too. What a night.

--

The only place to eat that was still open was the Mansion, so Frankie and Bram settled in at a table there, as far back from the door as they could go. For all their efforts they'd only ended up with a few brown leaves from a copse of chokecherries they had blundered through on their rapid, uncharted path down the hill. They decided they would press the leaves in their hardcover copies of their Wolfe's books as mementos.

They couldn't stop talking about it, though the more they talked about it the odder the tale seemed to grow and the more embellishments they seemed to remember. They finally solidified a common tale of strange flashing lights, howled commands in an unknown tongue and a supernatural endless stream of ghostly black cats going right through a closed window. Being as they were among the last patrons of the night and the restaurant was quiet, they related this to the only audience available: their waitress. Marlee, who had the evening shift that week found she had nothing else to use as an excuse for busyness and so found herself standing there, listening to what she considered crazy spooky-tourist ravings. She had to admit it was a more interesting tale than some of the others she had heard.

Noting her attention, Frankie felt she must be a kindred spirit and decided to seek her opinion on the matter. "What do you think? Have there been other reports of these otherworldly manifestations on that hill? Did they ever happen before Wolfe lived here?"

What did she think? Inwardly, Marlee thought they were nuts. Not wanting to offend as it wasn't time to collect her tip yet, she instead decided to drastically shift the topic. She went to get the coffee.

Returning with the pot, she topped off their mugs. "You know, it sounds like it's been a really long night for both of you. Here," she paused to dig into the pocket of her apron. "This is a coupon for a free makeover at my next Mary Kay party if you're still in town." She studied Frankie. "I have just the colors for you, and we have a new concealer for those troublesome bags under the eyes. Your friend here might like our tablets of relaxing lavender and spice bath salt. The fliers say its supposed to help ease nervous twitching. I could get you a sample too, just hold on a sec…"

--


	8. Chapter 8

Boo Rats

**8.**

When Ainsley dropped in at Wolfe's house the next morning, she brought with her a small basket of homemade apple-maple crumble muffins and a porcelain ramekin of honey-maple-butter to top them with. She'd mixed up just before coming and it was still soft in spite of the cold outside.

He greeted her with a hug and kiss. "Mmm. Muffins," he observed appreciatively, inwardly trying to think of how to keep her out of the still very perfumey kitchen. "Why don't you set those on the coffee table? I'll bring you some coffee." He took the basket from her hands and steered her into the living room, settling her gently into one of the overstuffed armchairs.

"Oh, you don't need to wait on me…"

"But I want to. Really. Just sit back and be comfortable," he assured her. He slipped into the kitchen to see if the coffee had finished making its way through the coffee-maker yet and fetched two plates for the muffins while he was at it. He quickly poured out two generous mugs of coffee, hoping they would not taste of perfume.

"I love this house," she said as he came back out. "It has such character and warmth."

He handed her a steaming mug. "Warmth?" He was still chilled from the kitchen.

"Mmhmm. See? All the golden brown details in the wood, the sunshine through the windows. I'm going to love it here, I just know it. It feels like home already." Her eyes glowed at him over the rim of her cup.

"All it needs is a woman's touch," he smiled back at her. "At least I've been told so. And no one can beat your touch…I mean, your fashion sense, that is." She smiled even more deeply and turned a touch pink.

"I bought a couple magazines," she said as if it were slightly embarrassing. "Home fashions and some bridal ideas."

"Magazines?"

"I guess I've just never had a reason to be able to buy a bridal magazine before, and there it was, all lacy and covered in flowers." She set down her coffee and nibbled a muffin. "It might be useful, really. I'll bring them along this evening and you can tell me what sort of tuxedo you prefer."

"Tuxedo?" he asked blankly.

"For the wedding. You aren't thinking you'd be married in a flannel shirt, are you?" She was teasing him now, though he realized he really hadn't given that particular aspect of it any thought at all.

"It would be all right with me, as long as you were there."

"That's sweet," she said, running a hand over his. "But I'm bringing the magazines along anyway."

He could think of no answer so he took a bite of muffin instead.

"What's that smell?" she asked.

He washed the muffin down with a very long sip of coffee and tried to think of any kind of reasonable answer. The real one didn't seem like a good idea at the time, the last thing he wanted to discuss with her this morning was Alfred Tennison's tacky gifts and book-signing that would take him out of town. "What smell?" he dissembled.

"That fruity sort of perfume smell."

What had a strong scent? He took another drink of his coffee and thought. "Oh, that. Um, air freshener."

"Air freshener?"

He tried to think of why he would have an air freshener in his house. "Yeah, I got it because the dogs got pretty wet the other day and I admit I didn't want you thinking the house smelled like wet dog, so I tried an air freshener. Unfortunately, it was a lot stronger than I expected. It'll wear off pretty soon." I hope, he thought. "It's not usually a problem."

He was grateful that she seemed to accept this. They nibbled muffins companionably together for a few more minutes until she finished the last of her coffee. His was already gone. She took one of his hands in hers, the other wrapped around the empty, warm mug for a moment as she looked around the room again. "This will be so cozy on a winter evening," she said softly, making his heart bounce around inside his chest like a ping pong ball. How did she _do_ that?

She gave his hand a squeeze and got to her feet, gathering up the mugs and plates. "I'll put these in the dishwasher for you."

"Oh no. Here, let me get that," he said getting up quickly, so quickly his chair thumped on the rug. She looked at him quizzically. "I mean, my lady," he bowed. "Allow me, forsooth, to taketh thy cup and wait upon thy loveliness." It was ridiculous, but anything to distract her and keep her away from the kitchen and dishwasher worked for him.

She smiled and gave him a big hug, snuggling into his chest. "You are so wonderful to me. I can't believe we're going to be married soon…" He stood awkwardly for a moment with a mug in each hand before managing to hug her back without clonking her in the head with either of them.

Sincerely hoping she would never have to find his home was not only cozy but vermin infested, he put the mugs in the washer very rapidly and glanced up at the window which remained part open in spite of the winter morning. He'd done all he could to try to clean up the perfume from the previous night but the chilled kitchen still needed airing. What in the world had made Alfred decide Ainsley would like such a smelly thing anyway? She had far more class than that. He suddenly realized he only had a very little time before he would have to be leaving on his trip, and then there was Christmas… so little time to hunt down his unwelcome rodent visitor. He renewed his determination to get rid it, preferably today.

After he'd seen Ainsley on her way for the day he reset what traps he could and pulled the dishwasher back out so the rat wouldn't go back to its nest. Getting out some oatmeal earlier that morning he'd found yet more rat-chewed holes, plus something had appeared to have made a substantial meal off of a box of crackers and he doubted it had been Alfred. He shook his head over the crumbs and debris that littered the cabinet; it looked like he was definitely going to have to go find some kind of rat poison.

He headed into town, not sure where a person went to find such a thing. Who would stock rat poison? A chemist at the drugstore? The feedstore maybe? There had to be a feedstore for the farmers around here someplace. The small pharmacy was just down the street, so he figured he would try that one first.

Pushing on the glass door marked "Pull" he entered the pharmacy where both of the stools on a tiny old fashioned soda fountain in the corner was populated by an unfamiliar woman with a dark, mud-stained jacket that was vaguely like a poncho. He glanced at her and nodded a greeting, wondering why she was staring at him for a moment. A quick glance down at his shirt confirmed that all of his buttons were matched up, so he decided to ignore it. He walked past them to the counter where an older sign half covered by a newer one seemed assure the reader that drinking soda would remove stains. Underneath it a faded poster of assorted race-cars in Indianapolis and a fly-dotted curl of flystrip went around and around.

A skinny, rather startled looking young man wearing a white pharmacist's coat that was too big for him bobbed up from behind the partition and came to the counter. Summer help, no doubt, he didn't look old enough to even be out of high school.

"C..can I, uh, help you? Sir?"

"Maybe," said Wolfe though the youthful face before him gave him doubt. He wondered if this boy would even be qualified to hand out aspirin, much less anything more potent. Well, what he was looking for probably just came in a sealed box anyway, not being for people. He wanted something with a picture of a rat on it. A dead rat.

"I'm looking for some poison for a little unwelcome visitor at my house," he smiled. There was a crash behind him and the sound of breaking glass. Surprised, he turned to see the young woman looking down at a shattered soda glass and then gaping up at him. She opened and shut her mouth like a goldfish. Alarmed, he wondered if she was going to pass out.

"I….it…." she said.

"Oh, don't worry, it's just a glass… it happens…. Oh no, here, let me get that," said the youth behind the counter, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. He snatched up a towel and a dustpan from the counter. Wolfe blinked, unsure whether to offer to help or not. The young man was now scooping up the bits of glass, sweeping them into the dustpan with his towel. "Sorry," he said over his shoulder. "I'll be there in just a minute."

"It's all right. I can wait," said Wolfe, thinking of the rat who was dozing someplace in his kitchen, well-fed on Wolfe's supply of crackers. No hurry. But if he could find something here, it'd have a surprise in its breakfast tonight. "I don't think he'll come out before it gets dark anyway."

The woman went pale and suddenly dug into her pocket, slapped a bill down on the counter and ran out the door. Wolfe and the pharmacist looked at one another blankly.

"What was that about?" he asked.

"Beats me, never seen her before," shrugged the pharmacist. He reached over to pick up the bill and examined it. "Cool! A twenty! You think she's going to want change?"

"Maybe it's a generous tip because she broke the glass," Wolfe mused. "Now, can you tell me if you carry any rat poison?"

--


	9. Chapter 9

Boo Rats

**9.**

Bram looked astonished as Frankie reported all she had overheard in the pharmacy. It was clear their favorite writer was much more than just a writer. He apparently was the real thing. Poison! Talk about a way to try to overcome writer's block!

They looked around the bookstore, which had become their headquarters of sorts for the duration of their stay. There were no other customers, and Dustin had his nose deep in a book. Bram gestured at her to lower her voice.

"And you're sure of this?"

She nodded. "I swear. I heard it myself, plain as day. He was looking to poison a visitor and that he said he had to wait until it was nighttime to do it."

"And the guy at the pharmacy was just going to let him do it?"

"They live with him in this town. He was probably afraid he'd be next if he didn't sell him the arsenic or whatever."

"Arsenic?"

"Well, I don't really know what he bought, but it was poison, I'll tell you that!"

"This is serious! I mean, séances and alien lights and black cats and ghosts, well, all that's, you know, everyday stuff. But poisoning someone, that's murder! Maybe we should call the Sheriff."

"Maybe that's just how Boo gets all his ghosts. Maybe he's like those crazy old ladies in Arsenic and Old Lace, or kinda wants to restock his ghosts with some fresh ones…"

"What? It's not like ghosts have a 'sell-by' date or anything. Dude. You don't know what you're talking about. Ghosts have to be, like, betrayed or something or they won't be ghosts."

"Oh yeah! I remember in _The Curse of the Owl_, that owl that always hooted outside the old castle walls was really…"

"_The Curse of the Owl_? That's not a Wolfe Boone book!"

"I know, but it was hooting because someone had turned it into a ghost."

"An owl?"

"No, a person. But she showed up like an owl. I can't remember why."

"Well, if it had been a Wolfe Boone book, it would have made more sense," he sniffed. "Like I said they have to be betrayed first. Or be totally unrequited or something."

"We should call the sheriff," she said.

"But we can't! Remember, Dustin said Wolfe is engaged to the town sheriff's daughter!"

"So?"

"So the Sheriff must be his friend. He could betray him." Bram was very serious. "We could be responsible for the town's sheriff ending up as a ghost."

"Wow. A sheriff would make a great ghost. His daughter would be even better, the classic tragic betrayal of true love. That would be a ghost for certain."

"But we don't want it to happen!" Bram said.

"Oh, of course not. I don't think so anyway. So if we can't call the sheriff, who can we call?" They both furrowed their brows in thought.

"What if it's like, a priest?" Bram asked suddenly.

Frankie frowned and looked confused. "A priest? You mean like those church guys that exorcise things?"

"Yeah. Can priests get turned into ghosts?"

"I don't think so. I think there's some kind of rule against that, but I'm not sure what it is. It just doesn't happen, you know? They're like Teflon. Curses don't stick."

"So since we can't call a sheriff, maybe we should call a priest. Do they have any priests in this town?"

Frankie got up so quickly she almost knocked over the bookstore's cardboard standee.

"There's a church just down that way, it must have priests. Probably a whole crowd of them. Let's go get one. He'll know what to do. And we better hurry, it's already past lunchtime!"

--

They entered the church building a bit warily, having between them never been to any churches before except for a couple weddings in their childhoods. It felt strangely bright to them, and very oddly peaceful.

"Funky," whispered Frankie, pointing to the stack of collection plates. "Wonder what those are for."

"Maybe they serve snacks," wondered Bram. "Look, there's a sign on that door. Let's try it."

They tiptoed over to the door and gently knocked. "I wonder if we're supposed to bow or kiss his feet or anything," whispered Frankie. "I saw that in a movie once."

"If he holds out a ring, you're supposed to kiss it," agreed Bram. "If he waves his hands, then you bow."

They both looked surprised to find the door opened by a simple, unassumingly common man. At first they thought he must just be an assistant of some kind.

"Oh no, I don't have an assistant like that," he smiled. "I am the Reverend Peck. Pleased to meet you, won't you sit down?" He shook their hands, opened the door wider and waved them in.

Sitting gingerly on the edges the proffered chairs, Frankie and Bram looked around nervously. There didn't seem to be anything unusual: just books, papers and the usual brick-a-brack. It reminded them both of the types of offices their college professors might keep. There was no sign of any of the exorcism equipment they had come to expect from the books and movies they had seen; no oversized metal crosses or wooden stakes, no chalices or vials of glowing water. The man who had invited them in seemed disarmingly average and likeable; he even spoke just like a regular person instead of imitating a bad Shakespearean actor. Not a single thee or thou had been heard, and they weren't sure what to make of it. Would he still be able to help them?

"Mr. Priest…" started Frankie awkwardly.

"You may just call me Reverend if you like," he smiled.

"Mr. Reverend, we have something serious to tell you about Wolfe Boone."

--


	10. Chapter 10

Boo Rats

**10.**

Back home, Wolfe read the instructions on the box of poison he'd purchased. He briefly peered inside at the contents and was bemused to find innocent looking little colored pellets. Still…better safe than sorry. Chemicals that made rodents die couldn't be too healthy to touch. The package instructions didn't seem to think breathing it was a large concern, but he would sure feel better about this if he had a mask of some kind, and some gloves too . He went into the garage and rummaged around. There it was! That old gas-mask, a simple version with a couple straps that went over his head. He'd bought it from an army surplus place many years ago when he wanted to dress up like a robot for a school event, and while the costume hadn't won any awards he had never quite wanted to part with it. It had been kicking around in his belongings ever since, and he hoped it still worked.

He wasn't much of a gardener, but he did have some old gardening gloves he could use. He pulled them on and adjusted the straps on the mask. Feeling much more protected, he went back into the kitchen to face the box of colored pellets with its skull and crossbones on it. Now, where to put it? Probably back where the chewed foods had been.

Wolfe began clearing out the pantry to get it into the rear where the damage always showed up first. He pulled a large blue box from the back and considered it. Did instant potato flakes have an expiration date? Soup mix? How about canned milk? Wasn't it supposed to keep sort of forever?

--

The Reverend's eyebrows just kept notching higher and higher as this pair related to him all that they believed. Much of it didn't make any sense to him; in fact, most of it didn't. About the only sensible, normal thing they were suggesting seemed to be visiting Wolfe to set it all straight. They were both perched at the very edges of their chairs, so he tried to put them more at ease, they both seemed so very tense. He turned to a small candy dish he kept on his desk. "Peppermint?"

"Thanks," they both said at once. They looked at one another and almost smiled. That was better. He passed the dish around.

"Now, first of all, let me explain something to you. I'm sure there been some kind of misunderstanding. Wolfe would never hurt anyone, much less poison them. No, let me finish…" he said as they both began again with some nonsense about him wanting fresh ghosts and a visitor being in danger of being murdered at night.

"And either way," he continued, "you must understand that I am not, what did you call it?"

"Invulnerable?"

"Invincible?"

Reverend Peck's eyebrows, which had subsided were notched upward once again. "Right. I'm not either of those things. What I _do_ have is a faith in God, and I know that He protects me. Let me explain to you what I mean…"

"But we know about this stuff. Only priests like you can't be hurt by ghosts and things."

"No, that's not it at all. Any protection I have from the things of this world comes from God, and He gives it to all of His followers equally, not just to the priests or ministers…"

"The what?"

"The, uh, reverends. Like me."

"Ah."

"Here," he leaned back in his chair to fetch a book from the shelf by his desk. "Let me read you something from this Bible here…"

--

By the time they had finished talking and been offered a bit of coffee, some leftover doughnuts from the past Sunday and more peppermints, the afternoon was wearing on towards an early winter evening and they were getting anxious to go. The Reverend didn't think they quite understood the points he had been trying to make, but they were closer. It had been a long time since he'd had two such attentive young people show up to talk with him this way, even if their reasons were a bit odd.

Perhaps, he silently prayed, the truth of such matters would be clearer to them in time; they certainly both had excellent imaginations.

One thing had not changed, and that was their insistence that a visit to Wolfe was in order. He finally agreed to drive up to Wolfe's house with them just to settle them down and find out what, if anything, was really going on. Once they saw how calm and normal Wolfe was, their fantasies would no doubt come back into balance.

"This is great," said Frankie as she climbed into the Reverend's car. "We'll be like, totally safe with you."

"What do you mean?" asked Reverend Peck as he started the engine.

"You have that magic armor you told us about."

"It's not magic," the Reverend patiently explained one more time. "Remember? It's faith in God, and just trusting in His protection. Besides, I don't think there's any danger."

"Whatever you want to call it," she shrugged. "Still sounds like magic to me, all those flaming darts and all." She looked at Bram, who just nodded and shrugged too.

Reverend Peck sighed and pulled out of the parking lot.

--

Ainsley hummed happily as she walked up the hill to Wolfe's house, a neat packet of the magazines under her arm, her hand filled with a large muslin sachet of bayberry and potpourri spices she had made up to address Wolfe's air freshener problem. Once they were married, she would make sure he had no such bachelor-ish problems again. She held it to her nose and inhaled the Christmas-sy scent, straightening the ruffle of red and black plaid she'd chosen to make it seem more masculine. Perfect. She was a bit early, but didn't want to waste any of her time with him this evening; it promised to be wonderful.

It was nearly the dinner hour, and with the sun setting so low in the sky the shadows from the trees drew long squiggled lines across the gravel drive. Her breath wisped up in white puffs in the fading light. Goose and Bunny bounded up to greet her, wagging so hard their entire bodies wagged with them, taking turns shoving their heads under her free hand to be patted. She wondered briefly why they weren't inside as they usually were at this hour. They cocked their heads at her as she shushed them from giving her away and slipped in the unlocked front door to surprise Wolfe.

--


	11. Chapter 11

Boo Rats

**11.**

Wolfe breathed slowly through the gas-mask and reached up to adjust the straps again. It was a little musty, but the filter seemed to work fine. He peered over it and considered a shelf full of jam jars and bottles of various preserves that still needed to be moved before he could put the poison down.

Applesauce he'd bought from a roadside stand back in September faced him, dusty jars of jelly he'd half forgotten about, a whole row of homemade pickles given to him as a gift that he'd never had the courage to open and eat. He decided he'd just gather them up and move the whole lot to the table where he could sort them out and maybe toss the old stuff. Ainsley shouldn't have to face a kitchen with a lot of questionable old preserves in the cupboards.

He scooped his long arms around them all and gave them an experimental squeeze. They seemed to hold, so he turned, arms filled with jars just as Ainsley popped around the open pantry door and playfully said "Boo!"

--

The Reverend Peck pulled to a stop in front of Wolfe Boone's house and climbed out, followed by the two people who had come to him with such strange notions. He was sure whatever they thought was going on was all in their imaginations, as they would soon see. He smiled to think of how Wolfe would probably laugh at all of it.

The last light of the setting sun slipped away as they walked up the steps, Goose and Bunny sniffing them over eagerly. The dogs seemed a bit wary of the two strangers, but willing to let them go by as long as they were with the Reverend's familiar face.

In the fading light, Reverend Peck lifted his hand to knock.

A terrifying shriek rang out from somewhere in the house mixed with a muffled shout and several unidentifiable thuds and crashes.

"We're too late! He killed someone!"

"He killed the visitor that only comes out at night!"

They clung to one another behind the Reverend Peck as he now pounded on the door in some alarm. "Wolfe! Are you in there? Wolfe!" The dogs, excited by all the shouting, began jumping around them and barking.

Wolfe threw the door open, an apparition of terror to them with the light shining behind him, a gas-mask half-askew on his head and raspberry jam, applesauce and pickles splattered over him. You would think he had a hockey mask and a butcher's knife the way the people on his front step were reacting.

He ripped off the gas-mask. "Reverend! Thank heavens. Come help me with Ainsley!"

The startled Reverend followed him in, leaving the two young people huddled together on the cold front porch. They peered into the house with widened eyes. It smelled incredibly weird.

"I'm not going in there. No way."

Bram shook his head in emphatic agreement. " What do you think they're doing to her?"

"I don't want to know!"

The Reverend Peck rapidly followed Wolfe into his kitchen only to skid to a stop at the door. Wolfe was setting a chair upright and reaching to help Ainsley up into it.

Ainsley was sitting on the floor of the kitchen in a sort of minor shock, surrounded by broken jars and splats of jam, pickles and applesauce all mixed with trampled bayberry and potpourri from the explosion the sachet had made when it hit the floor. The scent of fruity-vinegar-bayberry-dill-perfume filled their nostrils. She didn't seem hurt, but was pointing up at the window and giving out a series of little high-pitched gasping squeaks.

A large brownish rat, panicked by all the sudden noise and smell and deprived of its former nest was climbing up the kitchen curtain. Reaching the top, it pulled itself up like an amateur rodent gymnast and began half-running, half-dangling along the rod, it's tail whipping around as it tried to find its balance.

The Reverend gaped, then blurted what most of the residents of Skary would also have said when faced with an unexpected and bizarre emergency. "Call the Sheriff!"

--

Left to themselves, Bram and Frankie clutched at one another in indecision. At first there had been the screams and crunching glass sounds with thumps, now all they could hear was Wolfe's voice quickly talking to someone on the phone, a woman's voice and the Reverend's speaking at the same time. They had no clue what was going on, but they weren't about to go in. The weird smell continued to waft past.

"At least that lady is talking, so we know she's alive," Bram noted.

"You think there was anyone else in there?"

"Well, hurry if you can," they heard Wolfe say. "At this point, the sooner it's dead the better."

They looked at one another wordlessly, then slowly began edging down off of the porch.

"You know, it's one thing to read about it, it's another to have it happening…" whispered Frankie in a weak voice.

"Shh. Let's get out of here," Bram whispered back with a quaver.

In the distance they heard a siren coming their way.

"What if we get arrested as accomplices or something? What if the police are in on it? We gotta get out of here," Bram said.

"But w-what about Mr. Reverend?"

"He's invincible, remember? He has that invisible armor."

The headlights of the police cruiser began turning towards the bottom of the driveway.

In a panic, they fled for the third time down the hill.

--

The Sheriff chuckled with satisfaction as his dearest pride-and-joy neatly dispatched the rat that had been so recently dangling around on the kitchen curtains. As soon as it had been herded to the floor by the help of a mop handle, it's days were numbered. Days? Minutes. Maybe even seconds. Thief had saved the day.

He looked around the room to be sure everyone else was appreciating his cat's talents as much as they deserved. Had they noticed his perfect economy of energy, the placement of his paws?

"Eww," said Ainsley, turning her head away from where Thief was proudly displaying his rat. Wolfe was propped against the doorframe with his eyes closed, not even daring to look.

"He did it!" said Reverend Peck. He'd seen enough church mice in his time to not be so bothered by it. The Sheriff nodded at this acknowledgment, puffing up as proudly as if he had caught it himself.

"You should have told me you needed Thief's help," he admonished his daughter's fiancé.

Wolfe looked at his feet. "I thought about it, but I didn't want you to think I had rats."

"Eh?" The Sheriff wondered if he had heard right.

Wolfe gave him a sheepish smile. "I mean, I didn't want you to think that I wasn't going to be caring for your daughter properly, that my home was…infested. I mean, your home always seems so clean and… perfect."

The Sheriff reached down to give a congratulatory pet to Thief, who allowed him to scoop the rat away from him into an empty oatmeal container. "Infested? Are there more?"

"Oh no! Or at least not that I've found. This is it."

"Well, if there are, Thief is ready for action. Did you ever see such a cat? I trained him to bring the mice and rats to me so I can dispose of them. He gets tuna in exchange. Pretty good, huh? Keeps the house cleaned out. Probably all the surrounding houses as well."

"Cleaned out?" Wolfe sounded a little blank. "You don't mind then?"

Ainsley came over to put a comforting arm around his waist. "Our house isn't perfect, Wolfe. Whose is? You have no idea how many mice we had before Thief came into our family. We tried traps and everything but nothing really worked until a good old-fashioned cat took care of it. For a while we were really going through the tuna!"

"Do you have any?" asked the Sheriff.

"Mice?"

"No, tuna."

Wolfe considered his now-jumbled pantry. "How about sardines?"

As the Sheriff worked at opening the sardine can for his cat, who was now rubbing figure eights around his legs, the others set about trying to clean up the colorful, odorous, glassy mess that spattered the kitchen. Wolfe protested Ainsley helping at first, but she not only insisted on helping but sped it up so much he finally subsided. He even good-humoredly listened to her when she ordered him off to his room to change into clean clothes.

He was just coming back down the stairs when there was a knocking on the front door frame and Alfred's voice called out "Hello? Wolfe? Hello? Did you know your front door is wide open?"

"Hi Alfred," Wolfe said. "Join the party."

"What's that smell? That's not my…"

"No. We were catching that rat."

Alfred waved his hands. "I don't even want to know. I was passing by and thought I'd stop in, seeing as we leave in the morning."

"In the morning. Right." He considered how many hours he had left until he would have to close up the house for two days. Two long days for all those scents to ripen if they didn't get it cleaned up tonight.

"It's freezing in here," Alfred added. "Mind if I close the door?"

Wolfe ran his hand through his hair. "I suppose it doesn't make much difference at this point. Go ahead. Wait. Did you see my dogs out there?"

"Uh, no. I figured they were in here with you."

--


	12. Chapter 12

Boo Rats

**12.**

"Goose! Bunny!" Wolfe called.

He'd found Ainsley and the Reverend Peck had done a miraculous job on his kitchen, so much so that they could even close up most of the house. Only the kitchen window remained cracked open. The perfume smell seemed to have been cancelled out by the dill pickles, but the room still smelled like an explosion in a deli. The Sheriff said he would start up a good fire in the fireplace and Ainsley was making warm cocoa for everyone, even Alfred. What had started out as a simple evening with his fiancée had certainly taken an interesting turn.

The Reverend said he could only stay a short while, something about some visitors that had come to the church that afternoon. Wolfe hadn't really been listening, being more concerned about his missing dogs. He finally excused himself to go call for them.

"Goose!" he called again, his boots crunching along the frosty gravel driveway. "Bunny! Here Bunny! Here Goose!"

Somewhere in the distance he heard faint barking. Why had they gone so far away? They usually stayed right near the house.

--

"Are they still behind us?" panted Bram.

"I…think….we…lost them," Frankie wheezed in return.

"Attack dogs! I thought we were goners. I really did."

"Me too."

"Where did they go? Ahhah!" He startled as there was a movement in the nearby roadside ditch.

They started running again, gasping with their hands pressed to their sides as a fat black cat waddled out of the brush, followed by her nearly grown litter of kittens and watched them go curiously.

--

Goose and Bunny came bounding up the driveway towards their owner, wagging and panting happily.

"Where have you been?" Wolfe asked them, scrubbing their ears with relief. "Chasing some rabbits? Come on, let's get you something to eat, though I have to warn you might have to share with a cat."

--

Frankie and Bram sighed as they climbed into their mud encrusted car for their journey home, brushing away the sprinkling of snowflakes that were coming down. It had been quite an adventure, if that was truly what they had wanted. At the moment, they weren't quite sure. They'd tentatively edged into the church that morning to see the Reverend Peck, checking to be sure he was alive. He had been glad to reassure them that he was not only alive but well, and that no one had come to any harm the previous evening but one unfortunate rat. They'd gotten peppermints and a small bible as a gift with the instructions for getting invisible armor marked with a bookmark for them. They couldn't wait to give it a good reading when they got home.

In truth, what had happened in real life wasn't nearly as interesting as what they had imagined, which was both disappointing and a relief at the same time. Perhaps it was this that made them a bit downcast about having to leave Skary so soon. One thing cheered them back up considerably though, and that was the faded cardboard standee of Wolfe that filled their backseat, folded in half so it almost appeared he was brooding in the rear with a knapsack of laundry on his 2-D knees.

Finding a home for that old standee had been a stroke of genius on Dustin's part. The owner had been thinking of throwing it out when Dustin had struck upon the idea of selling it to these obvious admirers for a minor sum. They had been delighted, as had Mr. Bishop to get anything at all for what he had considered junk. They waved vigorously to Dustin through the bookstore's front window as they drove away.

Mr. Bishop nodded his approval as Dustin slouched his way back to the front counter. "You know, there have been days when I've had to wondered if you do anything but keep your nose in one of my books."

Dustin looked up at him a bit warily but only found Mr. Bishop smiling at him.

"Just now, seeing how you managed to strike up an accord with those strange people, and bring in a little extra money, maybe I've been wrong. You seem to be real good at connecting with odd folks. You're a natural."

--

Alfred snorted awake. "Wha'd they say?" he slurred up at Wolfe.

Wolfe shifted in the uncomfortable vinyl airport seating and nudged his drooping editorial friend to droop in the other direction. "They said the flight's been delayed again."

"What time is it?"

"Almost two in the morning."

"I can't believe this," Alfred yawned. "They've got the airplane on the ground. It isn't snowing. What could possibly take so long to fix?" His head slumped down over the bright red tie he was wearing, all patterned in tiny black cats. "We gotta get to the bookstore….," he mumbled.

Wolfe stretched a bit and stiffly got up to inquire of the only airline employee he could see, a short man who seemed to be just passing the time standing at the end of the closed jetway.

"Excuse me, I was just wondering if you know what it is they're needing to repair on the plane?"

"Rats," said the man.

"What?" Wolfe startled.

"Seems a couple rats that got into the plane somewhere. They're trying to catch them. Can't be that hard to do, you know. I'm sure it won't be much longer."

"Right." Wolfe went back to his seat.

Alfred snorted awake again. "Wha'd they say?"

"It's going to be a long, long night, Alfred. A long, long one."

_-- Fin --_

(A little note: Frankie was named in honor of Christian horror writer, Frank Peretti. You will also find his name attached to the perfume for the fun of it - "peretti" meaning little pears. It wasn't until my family proof-read my tale that they pointed out it could have been seen as something relating to Frankenstein instead, so I thought I'd mention it.)


End file.
